


Try a little tenderness

by Vracs



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Eve brings out Villanelle's soft bratty side, F/F, Fluff, Pure Smut, somewhere far away in Sicily, top!Villanelle but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 18:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18816115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vracs/pseuds/Vracs
Summary: Hardcore sex just doesn't do it for Villanelle any more and she's pissed.





	Try a little tenderness

_It's not just sentimental_  
_She has her grief and care_  
_But the soft words, they are spoke so gentle_  
_It makes it easier to bear_

 

/

 

She thrusts quickly, hips snapping against Eve’s thigh. Her orgasm dodges just out of her reach as she chases it, impatient, eyes grey and focussed beneath her frown, the rhythmic creaking of the bed an annoying distraction. She stares at the crack in the wall in front of her. The plaster there is starting to crumble.

In the periphery, she feels Eve’s hands come to settle gently on her waist. They’re soft and steady, thumbs stroking over the taught skin at her hip bones. She swats at them and growls.

“ _Don’t_.”

Eve doesn’t listen. Her palms slide to Villanelle’s thighs instead, fingertips so feather-light they strike a match in her, angry, always angry, brimming with so much fury she could explode. She feels her vision cloud with lust, and then with crimson rage.

She bends down and curls quick, clever fingers around Eve’s neck, tight enough to make her breath stick in the back of her throat.

Eve’s eyes flash with fear, then something softer, knowing, fingers clasped around Villanelle’s wrist to anchor it.

“Do it.”

Eve’s voice is hoarse and breathless. Her hair sits untamed on the pillow like a halo. Her cheeks are pink, flushed with exertion, flushing harder still as Villanelle applies pressure.

She watches the change. Waits for it to nudge her along, to help her – the control of it, the pain, the threat.

But it doesn’t. It settles heavy in her guts. She feels the hot disappointment of it curl uncomfortably in her chest and she loosens her grip, whining, squeezing her eyes shut to focus, to black out the Sicilian sun filtering through the blinds and painting Eve in golds; to drown out Eve’s soft sounds.

The ache between her thighs licks into her like a forest fire and doesn’t let up, not when Eve hooks a leg over her waist to pin her closer, not when Eve reaches up for her, palm to her cheek, not when Eve sighs and looks at her with concern so deep-seated it should disgust Villanelle but all it does is shame her.

Her muscles ache from the effort of it all. She feels the burn in her gluts, moisture collecting at the backs of her knees and in her lower back where her sweat pools and chafes her sunburnt skin.

She forces her hips to freeze and loosens her hold on the brass bedframe.

“I could hurt you.”

Eve nods. “Is that what you want?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Hurt me, then.”

She stares down at Eve. She can feel her heart hammering behind her ribs and between her legs. She leans to nail Eve’s hand to the pillow. The movement makes hair fall across her face and Eve reaches for it, tangles it in her fingers and pushes it behind her ear, anchoring it there in handfuls.

“I could kill you.” Eve’s mouth is an inch from her own. She wants to dart and bite, a snapping shark starved for blood. She sets her hips back in motion, the rocking of it knocking Eve’s head up and down so her lips stay just out of reach on every thrust.

Eve tilts to make it easier for her.

“So, kill me.”

Villanelle dodges out of the kiss, choosing instead to bury her face into the crook of Eve’s neck, in the place where it smells like cherry blossom and tastes like ocean. She bites greedily.

She thinks Eve might push her away when she sucks a bruise into the skin, but Eve’s hands come free, around to her back to hold her, palm pressing between her shoulder blades, the other toying with the sweaty seam of her hairline at the base of her neck.

The tenderness of it stings – at her retinas and the back of her throat. It quickly stokes the stubborn, grumbling start of her impending orgasm.

“Look at me, Oksana.”

She shakes her head.

Eve moves to kiss the thundering pulse at her neck. She chews back a moan, but it comes nonetheless, out as a quiet, pathetic little thing that Eve marvels at, Villanelle can feel her pleased grin press into her hair.

“Look at me.”

She does it because it’s the only thing that’s going to push her over the edge, to stop the pulsing, all-consuming hunger raging just beneath her navel.

Eve cups her face. Her eyes are so dark, the irises swallowed whole, mouth parted sweetly and Villanelle looks and looks, at last, looks until Eve’s nodding at her, brushing her mouth against her own in a kiss to say, _I’m not going anywhere_ , brief enough to let Villanelle focus, to give her space to pant breathlessly as Eve flexes her thigh and grinds up into her.

Then softly, carefully, Villanelle barely hears it when Eve whispers, “Good girl.”

And her orgasm hits like a freight train. It punches straight through her gut, violent and unexpected and quaking through her as she fights to contain the force of it, fights for it not to spill out of her mouth and past her waterline.

She slumps with the aftershocks. Makes sure to roll away from Eve to face the balcony. Her whole body feels heavy and slick, the sheets sticking like a second skin.

Eve doesn’t move to coddle her, doesn’t need to. Villanelle can feel her breathing calmly behind her, the rustling sound of fingers dragging through her tangled hair, the satisfying pop as Eve’s bones settle in their joints with a long stretch.

She closes her eyes. She should feel sated and lazy in her post-orgasm haze. Except it’s not a haze at all. It’s a waging war within her, one that leaves her antsy, riddled with anxiety she hasn’t felt since Russia.

She focuses on the sound of the wind hitting the shutters, the water lapping at the coast.

Vaguely, she registers the distant ding of a bicycle bell.

It comes in time with the press of Eve’s fingertips to the middle of her spine, crawling up the ridges of it.

She doesn’t give any indication that she’s noticed, though she feels it penetrate straight through her back and into her fluttering chest.

Eve’s fingers travel higher, smoothing damp hair away from her shoulder to cool her skin.

“I’m going to go grab us some breakfast.”

Villanelle shrugs. She’s sulking, she knows. Small victories.

“Stay right here. I’ll be quick,” Eve says gently, the bed dipping and recoiling as she moves to gather the clothes scattered across the floor. She makes quick work of dressing herself and Villanelle misses it all. Misses, whilst pretending to sleep, the way the light hits Eve’s caramel skin, how awkwardly endearing she looks in a summer dress, and that hair, always the hair.

It’s not until Eve crouches by her bedside for a quick goodbye that Villanelle cranks open a single eye, the one not buried in her pillow, and takes it all in. She knows she should act disinterested, but her gaze widens at Eve’s glorious, dishevelled summer look.

“Granita and brioche?”

Villanelle feels her heart clench. She pouts softly, her frown easing when Eve laughs at her. “Lemon, please.”

“Yeah, I know,” Eve rolls her eyes. Villanelle expects to be called a brat, affectionately, but a brat nonetheless, but Eve only gives her an understanding, patient smile and pets the crown of her head before moving to stand.

“Eve.” The word leaves before she can stop it and her cheeks burn in its wake. She swallows down that angry embarrassment she’s recently learned to relate to the fact that she may, ever so slightly, be softening, for Eve, or because of Eve, she’s not sure yet.

Eve smiles by the doorway.

“Don’t be long?”

“And keep you waiting?” she laughs, teasing. It’s the last thing Villanelle hears before the door clicks shut.


End file.
